


The One You Feed

by stubblesandwich



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CSSNS, Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, Werewolf AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-06-17 00:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15448956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stubblesandwich/pseuds/stubblesandwich
Summary: Emma Swan is an underpaid, overworked waitress at a small-town Denny’s. Once a month, a curious customer pays her a visit. In fact, he’s so strange, he’s warranted a special nickname from her friend Ruby–Cute Creepy Guy. He always orders a mountain of cheap breakfast food and eats it like it’s his last night on earth. Oh yeah, and apparently he’s a werewolf.





	1. A Corner Booth

There was something about rain that made too many people in Massachusetts want pancakes at the same time. 

When the wind picked up and the temperature dropped, good old-fashioned comfort food seemed to be on too many minds at once. The Denny's where Emma Swan worked always seemed to be a little fuller when the weather was crappy. 

Today was an exception. 

She didn't mind when it was busy. After all, full booths meant more tips, and more tips meant she got to pay her rent on time. It was the slow days, like today, that sucked; the breakfast joint turned into a black hole where time stood still and all happiness went to die. She made peanuts with her hourly wage, so when the patrons were few and far between, it was hardly even worth her time to be there. 

Emma was a hard worker, always finding something to busy herself with. Idling about only made time move slower, she'd learned. Besides, someone was paying her to be there (even if it was hardly any money), so she might as well be working. It was a huge pet peeve of hers to see some of the other waitresses and cooks on their phones when there was a lull in the day. 

(But, it was easy to criticize. Emma couldn't afford a smart phone.)

Not all of her co-workers were bad. She'd made a friend, working there—a fellow waitress named Ruby. 

The time was 8:00 p.m. on a Thursday. Unsurprisingly, not many people were craving breakfast food (or anything else Denny's served) that late on a week night, and the restaurant was about as slow as it ever got. Emma had paused in front of the little television behind the register, in a rare daze as she stared at the local news flitting across its tiny screen with zombie eyes. Ruby's sharp voice yanked her out of it.

"Earth to Emma!" 

She glanced over at her friend sheepishly. "Sorry," she said, "Were you talking to me?" 

Ruby gave a little scoff and a roll of her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind either. The corners of her mouth twitched upward in a smile. "Uh, yeah!" she said. "It's your turn to wait on Cute Creepy Guy." She gestured over her shoulder, jabbing in the direction of the back corner of the restaurant with her pen. 

Emma's gut dropped. She glanced up at the customer in question, who was frowning down at the menu. Like he couldn't decide what he wanted to order--or like he had heard Ruby's comment about him. 

Both options seemed impossible. He was way too far away to hear either of them talking, for one. Secondly, Cute Creepy Guy always knew what he wanted. He came in regularly enough—about once per month since the start of the year—to warrant a special nickname, and he always ordered the same thing. 

Essentially it was the Lumberjack Slam, a popular Denny's feature for men with something to prove, only modified. A lot.

Said slam featured the following: two hearty buttermilk pancakes, a slice of grilled ham, two strips of bacon, two sausage links, two eggs, hash browns and two slices of toast. 

It was an obscene amount of food. Emma had never seen anyone finish it without sharing. That was, of course, until Cute Creepy Guy started frequenting their establishment. 

Cute Creepy Guy always, without fail, doubled the portions of meat—sometimes tripled them. Occasionally, he would sub out the pancakes for a Belgian waffle. 

It was an enormous, seemingly insurmountable amount of food. And he finished it. Every time. 

In fact, he often ordered more, after finishing the slam. He took his coffee black; sometimes he'd opt for tea—also black. 

Emma had realized long ago that it was probably weird she knew his order so well. But, it was easy to see the pattern when he got the same thing every time. The guy knew what he liked. Besides, she told herself, Ruby likely knew what he ordered, too. The only reason either of them bothered to go up and take his order from him anymore, as opposed to just bringing his food directly out to him when he sat down, was the fact that they didn't know his hot beverage choice of the day or how much extra meat he wanted. 

Cute Creepy Guy was in his usual spot, in the most remote corner of the restaurant, alone. He always came alone. He had the same worn out, haggard look he usually did. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, which only made his eyes seem all the more blue. His dark hair was tousled, as if he'd had his head out the window like a dog on the drive over, but he wore it well. And, as always, he sported the same well-loved, over-sized leather jacket he wore every time he came in. 

His hands were resting on the table in front of him. Well, his hand was--the other was a prosthetic, as Emma had come to learn fairly quickly. 

(Ruby had never noticed this until Emma had pointed it out to her. "What?!" she'd said when Emma mentioned it to her offhandedly the first time. She'd had to grab her friend's shoulder and pull her back as Ruby spun around to blatantly stare at the back corner where he'd been sitting. "No way! He's missing a hand? How did I never notice that?" Emma had no answer to that.)

Ruby was watching her now, as Emma looked at the customer in question. Ruby donned a wolfish smile that made Emma prickle for some reason, like she knew something Emma didn't and was lording it over her. 

"I can't wait on him today, Ruby," Emma started firmly. "Regina has me re-organizing the condiments shelf for the next hour and she _really_ wants it done ASAP for some reason. Besides, he's in your section." 

Ruby huffed. "Yes, but sections do not apply to Cute Creepy Guy," she said. "You know this. He's weird, so we take turns. Today, my friend," she said, as she jabbed her pen at her, "Is _your_ turn." 

Emma just barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I don't know why you're so put out by him," she said. "He's not that bad. Just... odd. Besides, he tips really well." 

"He tips okay," Ruby said with a shrug. "The same as everyone else here, on average. Which means he doesn't tip all that much, since the food here's so cheap." 

Emma paused at that. Cute Creepy Guy had always tipped her exceptionally well, usually at least double the percentage he was socially obligated to. But, apparently this wasn't standard; it seemed to only apply to her. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. 

"Fine," she said, "I'll do it. But you'd better start on those condiments for me." 

"Deal," Ruby said, shooting her a wolfish grin. 

Emma plastered on her fake customer service smile. Ruby saw right through it and bumped her playfully on the shoulder as she passed. 

Emma didn't even bother taking out her order pad as she approached his table. Without raising his head, he perked up noticeably as she approached--almost like he could sense her coming. 

His whole demeanor changed. His shoulders, tense and hunched up close to his neck, slackened and relaxed. His back straightened, righting his terrible, slumping posture. 

And she could have sworn the tips of his ears tinged pink. 

He looked up as she stopped at his table, beaming at her. 

"Swan," he said, his voice deep and as smooth as velvet. “I was hoping it'd be you.” 

Her stomach did a little flip each time he said her name. Not for the obvious reasons--they called him _Cute_ Creepy Guy for a reason, after all, and his English accent was far from off putting--but because she had never actually told him her full name. 

The plastic tag on her chest read "Emma", her first name, just as every other server in every other restaurant's read their first name, too. But Cute Creepy Guy had taken it upon himself to give her a moniker, after he had aptly noticed the swan pendant she wore around her neck every day. He had noticed it, complimented it, and turned it into an affectionate nickname.

A nickname that happened to be her real-life surname. But there was no way--outside the very possible realm of stalking, cyber or otherwise--he could have known that. At least, that's what she told herself.

Because Cute Creepy Guy wasn't actually all that creepy. Not to her, anyway. Sure, she understood why Ruby found him to be a little repelling. He was definitely strange. But, Emma had never been scared off by strange. She dealt with weirdos everyday in the serving industry. There was no shortage of creeps trying to peer down the front of her polo shirt as she leaned in to refill their coffee, or checking out Ruby's long legs when she wore shorts in the summer. 

But this guy wasn't like that. He kept his eyes where they belonged, never straying below Emma's neck--or more accurately, where her necklace ended. She could always feel him watching her when she walked away from his table, but she didn't mind that so much. (At the risk of sounding cocky, she was fairly accustomed to people checking her out.)

With Cute Creepy Guy, she never seemed to mind. He was different.

It took Emma a few seconds to realize she was staring at him, blatantly admiring his stubble--a little thicker and darker than it was the last time he'd been in--around his jaw instead of answering him. 

"Jones," she said. He smiled one brief, impossibly wide smile. A quick flash of white in a Cheshire Cat grin and it was gone, concealed as he ducked his head in a mock bow. But she would swear later his eyeteeth looked impossibly sharp. 

“At your service, lass,” he said, dipping his head forward in a mock bow.  

“Actually, I think it's me who's at your service today, buddy,” she said, but she smiled in spite of herself. “What can I get you? The usual?” 

He nodded. “Earl Grey today, though.”

“You got it.” 

Her sneakers squeaked faintly as she pivoted on her heels and turned back toward the front register. 

“Swan?”

Emma paused, looking back toward him. “Yeah?” 

“Extra sausage this time, if you would be so kind,” he said. He smiled brightly at her, and she would have thought him altogether innocent, if not for the look in his eyes, in which there was nothing innocent at all. 

There was a dirty joke about sausage right on the tip of her tongue, but an older gentleman in the booth next to where she had paused was staring at her. So instead, she just gave a quick, awkward nod and walked away. 

She'd redeem herself when his order was up. 

First came the tea. Not many people at Denny's ordered tea. Hipsters now and then would, trying to prove they were cooler than coffee—or at least coffee from a place like Denny's. In all honesty, Emma didn't really know how to make tea very well; the different steep times had always intimidated her. She always left the little bag in too long, making it way too strong and bitter.

But, it was embarrassing to admit in front of an actual Englishman that she didn't know how to properly brew tea. To remedy this, she usually just brought him a cup of hot water with a packaged bag of tea on the side, nestled in beside the cup on a saucer. And bless his soul—he never said a word about it, apart from sharing his thanks. 

Jones typically opened said tea package with his teeth, presumably the easiest way to open a tea bag when one only had one hand.

And maybe this was wrong, but the first time Emma saw him do it, she thought it was one of the sexiest things she'd ever seen. 

He gave her an appreciative smile when she brought him his saucer and hot water. “Thanks, love.” 

She nodded. “No problem.” 

He pulled the tea bag out from beside his cup and brought it to his mouth, ripping it open easily with his teeth. 

She was staring at him again— _biting her lip_ , no less—and she was suddenly so embarrassed she could have darted outside and straight into traffic. Emma Swan didn't _do_ things like this. She wasn't like this over guys, especially guys she hardly knew. 

Heat flooded her cheeks, and she was just about to turn and head back for the kitchen area when he spoke up again. 

“So, Swan. How's your day going, love?” 

If he had noticed her staring, he was blessedly ignoring it. She could have melted into the tile floor in relief. 

“Oh, you know,” she said, “Another day, another dollar.” 

He smiled up at her before he turned his attention to his tea cup. She watched as he looped the tea bag string around his index finger and bobbed the bag up and down a few times as it steeped in his cup, dancing like a marionette. “Is your shift just about over?” he asked.

“Actually,” she said, the word coming out through a sigh, “It's just getting started. I'm here past midnight.” She wasn't sure why she'd told him that, exactly. Emma never, as a general rule, gave anything even resembling personal information to a customer, to include what time she was getting off work. It usually led to conversations she didn't want to have.

But instead of hitting on her, Jones just offered up a sympathetic look. “Sorry, love.” 

She shrugged. “I need the money. Hey, most of my section is on the other side of the restaurant today. So if you don't see me, I promise I'm not ignoring you.” 

The wolfish grin reappeared on his face. “I would despair if you did.” 

She couldn't help the smile that broached her face, though she tried to hide it. Somehow, he was the only person she'd ever met who was able to make such cheesy, melodramatic lines seem sexy. It was impressive, really. 

“Yeah,” she said, as a little smile still played across her lips, “Whatever you say, Romeo. I'll be back in a minute.” 

It took about twenty minutes, actually. A few more families came in, occupying the tables in her section across the restaurant. She was glad, because this meant more tips and thus more money for her, but it made things a bit awkward with Jones. She was just far enough away that she couldn't see his table to check on him. 

What was even more awkward was that he was in Ruby's section, and Ruby came through to check on and refill the coffee mugs of everyone but him. Thankfully it wasn't entirely obvious that she was avoiding him, as his booth was in the far corner and the tables nearest to him were empty. He was a lone wolf, as it were. But still. It was odd for Emma to have the majority of her section on the opposite end of the restaurant with a single table as far away as it could possibly be. 

Ten minutes ago, the restaurant had been dull, quiet enough so that she could actually hear the faint, terrible country music playing on the building's outdated speaker system. Now, the place was abuzz with conversations being shared across tables. Everyone in the big group that had come in obviously knew each other; all the kids were wearing matching uniforms, clearly all members of the same local baseball team. 

Emma was a good waitress. She was friendly, smiled, and was genuinely good at her job. She asked the kids if they'd won their game—they did—and charmed their parents with a bright smile that wasn't too bubbly or flirty. A few more families came in, obviously from the same team and coming to celebrate the big win against their school's arch nemesis. Her order pad filled and she made lots of promises of ice cream she hoped she could keep—the soft serve machine had been on the fritz earlier—and before she knew it, twenty minutes had flown by.

Cute Creepy Guy's order was definitely up. By the time she made it over to the half wall that divided the kitchen from the rest of the restaurant, where all orders were handed off to and from the cooks, she could see his table; he already had his food, and he looked about halfway finished eating it. 

Emma cursed under her breath. She passed off her small mountain of orders to David, Emma's roommate and the restaurant's head chef—or as close to a “head chef” as a Denny's can have—and booked it over to Jones' table. 

He had a mouthful of something when he looked up at her, his cheeks adorably full. 

“I'm sorry,” she said in a rush, even as he waved her apology away with his prosthetic hand. “Really, though. I got caught up with this big group of little league players and--” 

“Swan,” he interrupted graciously, “It's quite all right. Truly. Ruby brought it out for me not five minutes ago. You're fine, love.” 

Relief washed over her. She always hated leaving a customer unattended for too long. It didn't usually bode well for her tip. She knew she'd hear an earful about it from Ruby later, but she didn't care. She was just glad he wasn't upset with her. 

She let out a breath and gave him a small, appreciative smile. “Okay. Thanks, Jones.” 

He returned her smile, but this one didn't quite touch his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something else, but she spoke first when she noticed the plate in front of him.

“Holy crap,” she said, “How are you halfway finished with all that? You said Ruby just brought it to you.” 

He looked down at his plate uncomfortably, bravado deflated.

“You must've been hungry like the wolf,” she offered, smiling at him. 

He barked out a laugh that was so loud she nearly jumped out of her skin. “What?” she asked, but he just shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said, but his grin belied him. “I'm just going to have that bloody song stuck in my head for the rest of the night.” 

“Not a Duran Duran fan, are you?” she teased.

“No,” he said flatly, but his eyes still danced. “Can't say that I am.” 

She offered him more tea, which he accepted, and she tried to bring it back to him in a timely manner to make up for her utter lack of service before.

Over the next hour, Emma was fairly busy. Between checking periodically on Jones and completing the seemingly countless needs of her other tables (the ice cream machine was working, after all, and she had to carry the cones out two by two for a plethora of hungry young baseball players), she was swamped and her shift was finally flying by. 

Before she knew it, it was past ten o'clock and she just had a couple hours left on her shift. 

Ruby was heading out just as Emma was making her way back to the front register to ring up the final bill from her cluster of tables. 

“Bye, babe,” Ruby said, shooting her friend a wink. “Hope you made the big bucks today.” 

Emma gave a sarcastic huff of a laugh in response. Ruby went on, “Oh, I bussed Cute Creepy Guy's table for you, so don't worry about it.” 

Something dropped in Emma's stomach. “Yeah?” she asked. “He left?”

That knowing look was back on Ruby's face. It made Emma so uncomfortable that she had to avert her eyes, suddenly finding the little television above the register very interesting again. 

“No,” Ruby said, keeping her voice curiously neutral and devoid of any inflection. “He's still sitting at his table.” This got Emma's attention again and she looked back to her friend. “I'm pretty sure he's waiting for you.” 

He was, in fact, waiting for Emma. Still nursing the same mug of tea, which had to be cold by now, he sat in his booth, looking down intently at a book he had laid out across his table. This time, he didn't look up when she approached. 

“If you look at that thing any harder, I think you're going to set it on fire,” she said. 

Jones nearly leaped out of his skin. It was so uncharacteristic that she couldn't help but laugh outright at him. He looked up, his usually wolfish smile looking sheepish instead. 

“Swan,” he said. “There you are. I thought you might have gone home early.” 

“I wish,” she said. “That would be amazing. I'm scheduled for a morning shift tomorrow, too, so I'd love to go home and sleep. But someone screwed up the schedule, so I'll be here bright eyed and bushy tailed.” She gave a jaunty little swoop with her fist and forearm joined by a sarcastic smile, to which he responded with a wince. 

“That's bollocks.” 

“Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “Nothing I can do about it now. Anyway, it's time for my dinner break, so I need to go scrounge up something to eat. Just wanted to make sure you were still good back here.” 

“I've a free spot right here, if you'd like some company,” he said, gesturing to the empty booth seat across his table with his prosthetic. 

Emma hesitated. She had never spent so much time talking to one customer before, let alone sat down to share a meal with one. It should have been weird, but she found that strangely, it wasn't at all. She liked Jones. Sure, he flirted with her recklessly every time she saw him, but she never took it too seriously. He had made it more than clear he was into her, but he never pushed her. Just flirted with her playfully to make his interest clear. 

“I promise I won't bite,” he said, his eyebrows wagging at her. “Not today, anyway. Not unless you want me to.” 

Emma rolled her eyes. “All right,” she said, “Fine. Let me go put in an order for myself and I'll be right back.” 

“I assure you, Swan,” he said, still grinning at her, “You'll find nothing but pleasure in my company.” 

She shook her head as she walked away, thinking for the second time that night that no one on earth could get away with lines like that except him. 

She returned with a fresh mug of tea for him, which he seemed pleasantly surprised by, and a burger accompanied by a hot pile of onion rings for herself. Jones's eyes went a little dark as he stared down at her plate, and she heard him take in a deep breath through his nose, clearly smelling her food. 

“Okay, weirdo,” she said, as she shifted in her booth seat and made herself comfortable. “You can have some, if you want. I get free food here when David's on the fryer.” 

“David?”

Emma made a noise around the giant bite of burger she'd just taken. “Heev my fend in bah.” 

Jones just stared at her. Emma swallowed and tried again. “Sorry. He's my friend in back.” 

“Ah,” Jones said, a little strangely as he looked down at his steeping tea. “I see.” 

“He's engaged,” she said. She wasn't quite sure why she felt the need to tell him this, but Jones looked up at her brightly, and Emma gave him a soft smile. “His fiancee comes in here all the time to visit him. They're my roommates, actually. She's really nice, teaches elementary at the school near by. She probably teaches that horde of kids who came in here. And then David's the night shift cook here. I think she comes in when misses him while he's working.” 

“That's sweet,” Jones said, as he brought his mug to his lips. Emma watched him for a beat. 

“They're really sweet,” she finally said. “Too sweet, actually. Kind of makes you sick.” 

He laughed, which made her laugh. “Has there been no great love in your life, Swan?” 

Without even thinking, she reached up and grasped the swan pendant around her neck. He watched her, and she dropped her eyes to her lap. 

“No,” she finally said, “I have never been in love.” 

“Pity,” he said. He had lowered his voice both in timbre and volume, and she noticed suddenly he was much closer, leaning in over the table as he reached out to put his hand over hers. 

His palm was hot, and after a few seconds, she jerked her hand away in surprise. He pulled his hand back, too, and stuffed it awkwardly into the pocket of his leather jacket. “Sorry,” he murmured apologetically, but Emma shook her head. 

“No, it's just... your hand,” she started. “It's so hot. Are you feeling all right?” 

Once she'd asked the question aloud, she noticed that he didn't look the same as he had when she had first waited on him hours ago. He didn't look well at all. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced, looking especially dark compared to his skin, which she was now noticing looked pale, ashen. 

“I'm fine,” he said, offering a smile she saw right through. 

“You don't look fine,” she said pointedly. 

He helped himself to an onion ring. She gaped at him, marveling at how he still had room in his stomach for food after everything he'd eaten. “You can't still be hungry,” she said in disbelief, staring at him openly.

He just shrugged in response, concealing a sly grin as he brought another onion ring to his mouth. 

“You're something else, Jones.” 

“You know,” he said around a mouthful, “I do have a first name.” 

“Yeah,” she said, “Something with a 'K', right? I only know your last name from your debit card, when you pay your bill.” 

He chuckled. “Yes. Killian.” 

“Killian,” she said, trying it out. She liked it. It was unique. She'd never met a Killian before. It was strange, referring to him by an actual first name instead of what she and Ruby usually called him. Thinking of Ruby's nickname for him made her smile, and he canted his head just slightly to one side in questioning, but she decided to keep his less-than-affectionate epithet to herself. 

“I dunno,” she went on playfully, “I think it's best if I still think of you as a nameless patron of Denny's. Can't be caught fraternizing with customers and all that.” 

That signature grin was back on his face. “What if said customer were dashingly handsome?” 

She shook her head in dismissal, but still smiled at him as she took another bite of her burger. 

The rest of her break passed in easy conversation. He expertly danced around any question pertaining to himself, only giving vague answers that weren't really answers at all, always managing to turn the question back on her. 

Most of the time, she didn't fall for it. But Emma found Killian Jones strangely easy to talk to. She told him about her roommates, how they were getting married in the winter, how she'd been asked to be a bridesmaid but was pretty sure they were only asking her because they felt bad for her or because they needed one more person to make the bridal party even. Killian had scoffed openly at that, dismissing it entirely. 

“You're mad,” he said. “Anyone would be lucky to have you as part of their wedding. I'm sure you're a wonderful friend, Emma.” 

She looked up at him, struck by his use of her first name instead of his usual, affectionate nickname for her—the one that happened to be her actual last name. She missed it. 

He returned her gaze, clearly confident in his words. And for awhile, they just looked at each other, until Emma's curiosity fell to shyness and she dropped her gaze. 

She cleared her throat awkwardly and reached over for her phone to check the time. 

“Crap,” she muttered, “I'm over on my break. I gotta get back.” 

Killian looked around the restaurant pointedly, as if to say, “Clearly it's so busy in here,” but Emma shook her head as she started to scoot across the booth seat to stand up. 

“They use time punches here,” she explained. “My boss has been a real stickler for break times not being over lately.” 

“Ah,” Killian said, “I see. Well, in that case, Swan, it was lovely sharing dinner with you.” 

“You stealing a few of my onion rings hardly constitutes dinner,” Emma retorted. 

“Agree to disagree,” he said with a smirk. “Next time, I shall remember to bring the champagne.” 

“For?”

“Our second date, of course.” 

He was joking. He had to be. The gleam in his eyes gave as much away, but something in his tone was serious. She could just tell, easily, that if she took his invitation and actually said yes to a date with him, he'd be ecstatic. 

Suddenly, it was all too much. He seemed to notice, and his entire demeanor shifted as the smile dropped from his face. He opened his mouth to say something, but Emma was already gone, tossing a quick “Catch you later,” over her shoulder as she turned on her heels and made a bee line for the kitchen area. 

She would feel bad, later, after hiding in the kitchen area like a coward for nearly fifteen minutes. Regina would chew her out for not punching back in after her break, going on and on about how she would have to go back in and manually adjust her break time, even though David vouched for Emma, saying he saw her come back from her dinner break on time. 

When Emma finally came back out onto the floor, Jones was gone. His table was empty, completely bussed and wiped down, as if he had never been there at all.

The restaurant suddenly seemed terribly lonely. 

 

+++

Whoever's idea it was to make Denny's an open-24/7 establishment deserved to be shot. Not killed, necessarily, but maimed. Definitely maimed.

At least, that's how Emma felt as her third night shift in a row was coming to an end at nearly two in the morning. Naturally, five minutes before her shift was supposed to end, a group of teenagers had sat down in her section, taken forever to order a few cheap appetizers, and then left no tip at all. On top of that, Regina had goofed up the schedule and Emma was due to be back--peppy, uniformed, and ready to take orders--at 7:00 a.m. sharp.

It was too late to do anything about it now. No one had noticed the schedule glitch until it was too late, and Denny's, like most entry-level serving jobs, went by a find-your-own-replacement policy when it came to trading shifts. No one in their right mind was going to take an early shift off her hands on short notice. 

The back door had a tendency to stick. As Emma gave it an extra hardy shove in anticipation of a fight with the door, it whipped out, jerking her forward, and slammed against the outside wall of the building. Emma swore, pausing for a second to regain her composure before she started toward her car. 

The sky was ink black. There was no wind, the night as silent as it was dark, but there was a noticeable nip to the air and Emma pulled her red leather jacket a little tighter anyway, hugging her middle with her forearms. Her purse thumped against her thighs with each step. 

She had parked at the far end of the parking lot behind the building. The best spots were reserved for customers, after all, so Emma's faithful yellow bug sat parked next to the dumpster.

The lot was poorly lit, the closest street lamp casting its light only just to the back of her car. She didn't usually make a habit of parking in the darkest, eeriest corner of the lot, but it had been fairly busy when she'd first started her shift. The employee parking lot was nearly to capacity; any better spots had been ruined by a handful of idiots who didn't know how to park inside the lines. 

And that's how Emma found herself, on a cold, dark night, almost getting mugged. 

She didn't see the man until she was nearly to her car; most of him was hidden by the position of the dumpster. 

The moon, full and swollen in the sky, did more for her vision than the street lamp. It at least let her see the glint of metal in his hand as he stepped out and toward her. A knife, if she was lucky. A gun if she wasn't. 

“What the hell,” she said, the words shooting out of her mouth in a startled jumble. Reflexively, she reached for her purse. Her fingers fumbled, but she had what she wanted in seconds: a travel-size canister of pepper spray. 

 

Her fears weren't misplaced. The man darted out from behind the dumpster and started coming at her, fast—too fast to have honorable intentions.

What came next happened so fast, she could barely process it. 

A sound tore through the air then, so loud it seemed to grab her by the bones and shake her.

She whipped around and was met with a set of teeth. 

Enormous, gleaming white teeth. They were attached to an even larger snout, black enough to blend in with the night, directly behind which sat a pair of wide, seemingly iridescent blue eyes. 

Emma did what any self-respecting woman standing in the cold dark holding a canister of pepper spray in front of a monster would do: she screamed, threw up her arm, and sprayed the hell out of it. 

This was, she was instantly certain, the worst decision of her life. 

It let out a deep, piercing bellow of rage and pain. She could see the moonlight reflect off its white teeth, felt its hot breath on her face as it roared at her.

The man behind her stood gaping like an idiot, petrified. When the creature cried out, he let out a shriek of fear and took off across the parking lot, leaving Emma to fend for herself. 

Which, of course, she was relatively capable of. She immediately took a step back, just in time as the creature lurched forward at her. It bent down low, pawing wildly at its eyes as its cries turned to pain-filled yelps. It sounded like an injured dog more than a monster. And really, as it pushed forward into the light from the street lamp, it looked like a dog. An insanely huge, nearly horse-sized dog. It was ink black, its fur slick in the light. But as its lips pulled back over knife-like teeth, Emma knew this was no dog.

Emma's brain screamed at her to run, to get the hell out of Dodge, but her legs wouldn't move. They were numb with fear. 

She could only stare, saucer-eyed, as the thing in front of her kept pawing at its face. Then she noticed something—it only had one paw. Where the other should have been, instead there was a stump. It wasn't as effective and didn't reach as far as the monster's actual paw did, but it still jammed it up into its eye, rubbing furiously. 

It howled, arching its back up toward the moon, before it threw itself forward onto the ground, so close to Emma's feet that she could feel its wet breath on her legs through her jeans as it panted. 

Finally, she snapped out of it and jerked herself away, stumbling toward her car. She dug around for her keys in her bag, wishing for the first time in her life she'd had the foresight to clean all the unnecessary crap in her purse.

If she lived through the night, she swore she would be the cleanest, tidiest person on the planet. Because apparently, being tidy meant you could get to your car keys faster in the dark when there was a terrifying monster on your ass. 

She let out a happy, crazy little laugh when she finally found her keys. She was trying to hurry, but her hands were trembling. She was brave, but she was human, and she was scared out of her mind, even with a canister of mace in her hand. 

Her hands were shaking so badly that her car keys immediately slipped out of them and hit the ground with a soft _clink_. She cursed and dropped to her knees, feeling around blindly for them in the dark, feeling horribly close to Velma from _Scooby Doo_ , searching for her dropped glasses. “ _Crap_ ,” she said, as her search grew more and more frantic. “Crap crap crapcrapcrapcrap--” 

The dog-thing behind her gave a strained, elongated groan that was so deep, it rattled Emma's car. She felt it through the pavement on her palm, and a chill shot up her spine. In her peripheral vision, she could see the creature writhing jerkily on the ground. 

She could have sobbed in relief when her fingertips finally brushed her keys for the second time. She grabbed them, and they jangled loudly as she jumped back to her feet. 

Her car was so ancient, it didn't unlock with a button and had to have the key manually inserted into the door. This took her a few moments, trying to jam it into the slot in the dark with her still-shaking hands, but once she did she ripped the door open faster than she ever had in her life. 

Surprisingly, the car started easily, on the first try. Emma couldn't count the number of times she'd had to get a jump start from one of her co-workers because her decrepit car wouldn't start up. Today, the old bug was faithful. 

She jerked the car into reverse and slammed her foot on the gas, nearly giving herself whiplash as the car lurched backward. The creature wasn't in her rear-view mirror, and her brain wanted to tell her it was gone, that it had fled off into the night, but her gut told her otherwise. 

For now, though, it was nowhere in sight, and Emma was getting the hell out of there. She threw the car into drive as soon as she had enough room to move forward. The car's rubber tires squealed against the pavement, skidding for just a second before Emma hit the gas all the way. 

And then there was a naked man on her windshield. 

She felt him before she saw him. The thump was loud, sickening, and she felt it in her chest before she saw anything. But then there was a whole lot to see, with someone's ass cheeks pressed to the glass of her windshield, and she screamed more in surprise than fear. 

The car jerked again as it was thrown back into park, clearly not accustomed to being put in and out of gears so violently. As soon as the car stopped, the man rolled off her windshield and onto the ground in front of the car with an audible _thump_. 

Emma closed her eyes and pressed her forehead onto her steering wheel for a second, trying to keep herself from slipping into a panic attack through sheer will power, hoping to God she hadn't just killed someone with her car. 

She knew it couldn't be same man who had tried to mug her, since he had been fully clothed only seconds ago, but there was a freaking monster in the parking lot and she was not about to leave the person she'd hit with her car as its midnight snack. 

She shouldered her car door open and rushed around to the front of her car. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Are you okay? Please be okay. I'm so sorry—I didn't see...” She trailed off as she hovered over him, completely unsure of what to do. He was buck ass naked, every inch of his pale body visible in the moonlight, and she could feel her cheeks flushing as she scrutinized him for injury while trying to avert her eyes from certain portions of him at the same time. 

And then her eyes focused on his face for the first time, as he groaned and raised his head up from the pavement. 

“What the hell,” she breathed. “Jones...?” 

It was, in fact, Killian Jones. He was naked, in the back parking lot of Denny's, and she had hit him with her car. 

And that wasn't even the weirdest part of her day. Because she remembered then that there was a monster on the prowl, a monster she had pissed off by spraying it in the face with pepper spray. 

“Killian,” she said, and somehow using his first name made the situation all the more real to her. “We have to go.” She bent down and grabbed his arm, trying her best to pull him to his feet. He was unexpectedly heavy. “Come on, we have to get out of here. I have _so many questions for you_ , but they'll have to wait. There's a monster in the woods, but it could come back any second and I really don't want it to--” 

“Swan?” Jones said, sounding utterly confused. His voice was coarse, as if he'd lost it screaming his heart out at a concert the night before. His face was turned up toward her, and he was looking at her, but it seemed like he was having a hard time finding her with his eyes, or focusing them at all. 

“Yeah,” she said, “It's me. I _really_ want to know why you're naked in the back parking lot of my workplace, but right now I need you to get in my car.” Tired of waiting for him to accept her hand, she moved around behind him, squatted down, hooked her arms under his shoulders, and started hauling him to his feet. 

“I know it sounds crazy,” she continued, trying to keep some semblance of calm in her voice so she didn't sound like a complete maniac, “But there's something in this parking lot. Some kind of monster. It's huge, and black with these weird glowing eyes, and it almost killed someone who was trying to mug me before I sprayed it in the face with mace. I think it ran away, but I'm pretty sure I only pissed it off.” 

He let her help him to his feet, but then he had the audacity to laugh at her. Just a short, uneasy chuckle, but a laugh none the less. 

“Are you _laughing_ at me?” She said, jerking her hands away from him. Her arms went immediately to her middle, self-consciously hugging herself. “I know it sounds crazy or whatever, but I know what I saw. I _know_ what happened. If you think just because--” 

“Swan,” he said, cutting her off firmly. “You're not crazy.” Her jaw fell slack as she stared at him. “Want to know how I know that?” 

He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, gently and soothingly massaging the leather of her jacket with his thumb. He stopped as soon as he realized what he was doing. She wished he hadn't. But he didn't remove his hand, the warmth of which she could feel even through her thick jacket, and she was so struck by the tenderness of this that she forgot for a second how _weird_ the situation was—and how very, very naked he still was. 

She swallowed, then nodded, and he went on. “Because I'm still scrubbing pepper spray out of my eyes. That was _me_.” 

She felt like her brain was buffering. She understood all of the individual words he had said, but what he'd told her—what he was actually _saying_ —wasn't registering. It didn't make any sense. If she'd sprayed him, that meant something that _couldn't_ be true. 

She took a step back, and his hand dropped back to his side. 

“You... You're...” Any useful words faltered. Her mouth opened and closed a few times. She was vaguely aware that she looked like a surprised trout. 

“Aye,” he said, ducking his head to rub at his eyes again with his hand. She noticed then, for the first time, how they were red-rimmed and watering. “A giant, terrifying monster by night. Normal diner patron by day.” 

She laughed a sharp, awkward bark of a laugh. Because “normal” wasn't exactly the word she would have picked to describe him. He had always been strange, stood out like a sore thumb—so strange that he'd earned a special nickname amongst the waitresses. 

It turned out strange didn't even begin to cover it.


	2. That Moon's Still Full, Baby

“Swan?” Killian said through a cough. What felt like a century had passed between them, the moments dense and laden with awkwardness. Emma still hadn't said a word. She'd only stared at him, eyes bugging out of her head slightly. 

Or at least, that's how she looked to him; Killian still couldn't see her very well. His vision, despite how enhanced it typically was at night, was a hot, smeared mess thanks to the pepper spray. His eyes burned in their sockets with a fire he felt all the way to the back of his skull. He grit his teeth against it and tried again, coarsely. “Swan? Are you all right?” 

Emma shook her head vehemently, like nothing about this entire situation was okay, or remotely in the realm of it. 

“You're shaking,” he said quietly, his voice tender. For once, he didn't cough. 

That made her snap out of it. 

“And you're _naked_ ,” she said finally. She cursed and took a step back, earning a frown from him. “And... you're bleeding! Shit, are you okay?” 

She recovered the step she had taken away from him as she reached out to grab his arm and pulled it closer to inspect it. There was a deep gash across his left forearm that ended just above the blunted end of his wrist. Blood trickled down over his stump. Absurdly, he worried about staining her shoes as his arm hovered over the pristinely polished white rubber toes of her Converse. 

Initially, he jerked when she touched him, like he didn't see the physical contact coming, but didn't pull away. Then, abruptly, he lurched forward as another set of hacking coughs overtook him. Emma winced at each little wheeze he made each time he inhaled before he coughed again. 

He could tell—he just _knew_ —she had about a thousand questions for him. He could all but see them all playing out across her face as she hesitated to say anything else. She had to have questions; any sane person would. Because this was not a sane situation. 

But all of said questions had to wait. They couldn't stay there, in the back of a Denny's parking lot, with him in this state; his eyes were getting better, but that wasn't saying much. He could still barely see. And his distinct lack of clothing would be of concern to anyone who found them, naturally.

“We need to go,” Emma finally said, grimly. “Come on. Get in the car, Jones.” 

+++

He didn't put up a fight, thankfully. Emma kept a light grip on his shoulder to steady him as she gently led him around to the passenger side of the car. She was vaguely aware of the fact that pepper spray blinded temporarily and really didn't want him to catch his shin on the bumper of the car. Actually, it had a whole host of not-so-fun side effects. Coughing, wheezing, lung spasms if too much was inhaled. Watering eyes that burned like actual fire. It was damn effective against the ill-intentioned, that was for sure. 

And werewolves, apparently. 

She still felt bad about that. But there would be time to apologize later.  
After opening the door for him, she pressed down gently on the back of his head, and he ducked obligingly, sliding into her passenger seat. She tried very hard not to think about the fact that his naked rear was touching her car seats. (This was a mostly successful endeavor.) There was a particular portion of his body she could not avoid noticing, however, when she leaned in to buckle his lap belt for him.

Suddenly she was blushing so hard, it felt like her face was going to melt off her head. She clicked the belt into place as quickly as her fumbling hands would allow, then slipped out of her red leather jacket and draped it across his lap. “Here,” she said brusquely. 

She thought she heard him laugh, but he might have just been coughing again. As soon as she shut the car door, she had to lean into it for a second to gather her bearings. What she really wanted to do was scream her frustration into the night, but that was hardly going to be helpful. 

As she pulled out of the parking lot, she was grateful her boss was too cheap to put a security camera in the back of Denny's. 

+++

Their car ride home was predominantly silent, save for Killian's frequent coughing fits. He leaned forward now and again to pinch the bridge of his nose, shakily trying to breathe in without consequently hacking up a lung. Each time he did, a swell of guilt ballooned in Emma's chest. 

Killian managed to give her his address between coughs. She vaguely knew the area, or at least knew that his street was near the water. But when her ancient Garmin brought her to a series of boats in a small marina, she knew the thing had to be on the fritz again. She popped it out of the stand suction cupped to the dashboard and tapped the screen a few times, assuming it would recenter itself on the map and direct her to an actual house or apartment or something even remotely helpful. When the little direction arrow signifying her car on the screen's map didn't budge, seeming only to blink at her, (as if saying _you're already here, dumbass_ ) she huffed a sigh and held the power button down to restart it.

“This is it,” Killian said. His voice was coarse and gravelly, like the inside of his throat had been clawed by a vengeful cat. A vivid vision of the last creature with claws Emma had encountered popped into her head, and her stomach jumped beneath her seat belt. 

“What?” 

“My house,” came his croak of a response. But even despite his evident discomfort, he offered up a small smile. “The one with the skull and crossbones flag by the door.” 

Emma gaped at him, then leaned forward to get a better look at his “house”. It was a boat, actually. A quaint little thing, floating serenely next to an actual dock. 

“But,” she started, “That's a--”

“Yes,” he said, chuckling. “It's a house boat. Perfectly livable, equipped with all modern amenities. Only it floats.” 

“It floats,” she repeated, “Because it's a boat. You... live on a boat.” 

“It's actually more common than you'd think--”

“Like a pirate?” she interjected. 

He grinned at her, his face alight and overtaken with mirth, and it was the first time she'd ever seen him smile that way. It was gorgeous. 

“Aye,” he said, “Much like a pirate.” 

She couldn't help but laugh back at him. “All right, Captain Jones,” she teased. 

She paused a moment, her hold on the steering wheel tightening in a brief death grip that turned her knuckles bone white, and when she spoke next, it was in a sobered tone. “Can you explain any of this to me, Killian?” 

Her sobriety was catching, and the smile died on his lips as he nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly. “To the best of my ability, I will explain it all to you. Everything.” 

“Okay,” she said, her voice just a notch above a whisper. She was frightened, and despite the fact that talking to him was always so easy, felt so natural, she was a touch traumatized. Her mind kept jumping back to that _thing_ in the parking lot, the thing that was actually a regular customer of hers, a man she saw all the time, and she'd feel a wave of shock shoot over her like she'd just done the ice bucket challenge. 

As he looked at her, he seemed to read her fairly easily. He reached over and placed his hand on her forearm. Her hands were still on her steering wheel, hadn't moved this whole time, white-knuckling it, as if she thought clutching her steering wheel would give her an equally tight hold on her sanity. 

His hand was warm, and she could feel it through her jacket again. She stared at his hand for a moment before her gaze traveled up his forearm and over to his bare chest and the dark hair that covered it--

“God,” she said, “How do I keep forgetting that you're naked?” 

He didn't laugh then, but instead cleared his throat awkwardly, which morphed into one last coughing fit. Emma felt a familiar pinch of guilt. 

“I'm really sorry for macing you in the face,” she said quietly, and he kindly told her it was all right.

They sat in heavy silence for half a minute or so, both unsure of what should happen next. Emma, for her part, had no clue what she should do. Killian was still naked, with her favorite jacket draped over his bare crotch, and they hadn't even discussed the fact that he was apparently a werewolf. Or at least that's what she was calling it in her head. 

“Listen, Emma,” Killian started, right as she said, “So--”  
They stared at each other for a few beats before their faces broke out into matching smirks. 

“Would you care to come in?” Killian asked quickly—like he wanted to get the words out before she could say anything else. 

Emma hesitated. The moment stretched out languidly between them, until it grew stale and awkward, and Killian dropped his gaze. 

“I understand,” he said, “Of course I understand. Tonight has been... strange for you, to say the least.” 

“No, Killian--” she started, but he held up his stumped wrist as a form of polite interruption and went on. 

“Emma, really, I get it. You'd have to be a little touched in the head to come inside with me, I'm sure.” He offered her a smile, his last attempt at assuring her it was okay. She noticed it didn't reach quite his eyes. 

Emma didn't know what to say to that. She wanted to say something, didn't want him to just leave this way, but the words weren't coming; they sat lodged in her throat beside a tight lump. 

Killian looked at her, his gaze soft, even as his eyes still watered madly from the pepper spray. And God, he was handsome, even in only the light of the moon. She hated the little dart her stomach did whenever he smiled at her. 

“I want to come in,” she whispered to her steering wheel. It was a quiet declaration, spoken like she was trying to convince herself. She knew he heard her. He had to have supernatural hearing or something. For all she knew, he could hear her thoughts, read her mind like Professor X. Or Edward Cullen. Good God. She didn't know anything about this stuff. All she knew was it terrified her. 

After a few more beats of silence, Killian nodded. “All right,” he said. His voice was gentle, soothing. Something about it made her feel a touch calmer. “You don't have to,” he said again. “I'm going to go put on some clothes, though. That's long overdue. Come in when you're ready?” 

It should have been a statement. _Come in when you're ready_. But the slight lilt in his voice, the tentativeness, made it come out like a question, like he was still unsure she was actually going to get out of her car at all. To be honest, she didn't know, either. But she nodded and whispered, “Okay.” 

He patted the inside of the door where his hand rested once, a quick motion that said “All right, then,” before he pushed the door open and slid out. 

Gravel hugged up against the sidewalk that led to his dock, but the little stones didn't even seem to stir beneath his feet as he padded over them. He was silent as he made his way over to his house boat, clutching her leather jacket to his bum as he walked, likely a gentleman's gesture to spare her from having to see anymore of his naked body without her consent. 

This was the straw that broke the camel's back, the last swell of water that sent the dam to breaking. As she watched him hold her favorite jacket to his backside to conceal himself from her, the full force of weirdness that was this night hit her. Not in waves, but as one breath-taking avalanche. Panic sprung up in her like fire, eating away at the last of her resolve. 

The bug lurched as she threw it back in drive and slammed her foot on the gas pedal so hard it made the muscles in her calf spasm, and the tires flung back rounds of tiny rocks as she sped away. 

 

+++

 _Well_ , Killian thought to himself, as he watched the little Volkswagen shoot off into the night like a yellow dart, _Saw that coming_. 

His eyes still hurt like hell—actual hell—but his night vision was still in decent working order. Even in the dark, he could see the bug nearly to the curve in his road, until the trees grew too dense and the street was obscured from view. 

If he was being honest with himself, he was surprised it had taken her this long to bolt. Pleasantly surprised, but surprised, none the less. 

He sighed, and his hand tightened around her jacket, working the leather a bit between his thumb and forefinger as his mind leaped from thought to thought, each one half finished before another crowded into his addled brain to take its place.

The first thought he had of any substance was that he knew something fundamentally important that Emma did not, and that was that his street had no outlet. It wound around the water for almost a mile before finally ending at the parking lot for the marina's main office building, behind which sat a large storage facility. It was a dead end street, and Emma was going to need to turn around and come right back his way to get herself headed in the right direction toward home. 

He hated himself in that moment, how his heart leaped in his chest like a school boy at the thought of her coming back this way. That leaping feeling was immediately quashed by the irrevocable knowledge that Emma wouldn't want to see him. She wasn't exactly going to swing on by the house and pretend her speeding away had been an accident, or a hilarious joke. And she certainly wasn't going to feel comfortable seeing him still standing outside in the dark, holding her jacket against his junk, waiting for her like a sad dog that had been abandoned by its owner. 

He whipped around toward his house boat, furious at himself for being such a huge, blithering idiot. The water was just as black as the night sky. With no street lights on, the only light afforded him was that of the moon, its reflection wavering in the sea as the water lapped up against the dock. A dark thought overtook him as the glassy surface of the water took his full attention for a moment, and a large part of him wanted to throw himself in, swim until he felt seaweed tickle his face, and take a deep breath.

 _Already tried that_ , he told himself bitterly. It hadn't worked then and it was hardly going to work now, even if he could almost taste his own self-hatred now, in this moment; his first attempt had been an idea born of too much rum and an impending full moon. 

No. He needed to be gone by the time Emma turned around. The last thing he wanted was to make her feel any worse than she already did, to saddle her with the guilt she would undoubtedly feel as she passed his home again and didn't stop. He wasn't going to leave her with the option. 

The dock creaked once under his weight as he stalked out to the end of it. The moon's face seemed to wink at him from its glassy reflection in the sea, and he glared up at the real thing, cheery and bright against the obsidian sky. He had a little time left to get his affairs in order before he'd be forced to change again. 

It was a gorgeous night, really. Too nice of a night to be tainted with memories of thoroughly embarrassing himself in front of the most beautiful woman he'd ever met. 

In a fit of unparalleled, self-directed rage, he dipped down and singlehandedly hauled up the 300-pound anchor of the boat. The sound of it crashing down on the dock was deafening, blasting out across the water and echoing through the whole marina. He didn't care. 

The anchor kept the house boat from floating away on him at night; the rest of the boat's stability was afforded by several tethers, ropes secured by metal hooks to the dock and land. He undid these in record time, loosing the house boat, and it immediately started drifting out toward the small channel that led to the open sea.

The boat was ready to set sail, and so was Killian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up, guys? 
> 
> Surprise update here. And then remember how I said this was only going to be two parts? Yeah, that was a lie. An unintentional one, but still a lie, so here we are with part two of this fun story that's wormed its way into a permanent place in my heart. I struggled with this one for a while, but I'm happy to report back with a long-overdue update and promises to write more ASAP. This is the only story I'm working on at present and I will be finishing this before any other story steals my attention again. 
> 
> Sorry not sorry for that slight cliffhanger. I blame my pal Kaitlyn (spartanguard on tumblr) who said this was a perfectly fine chapter to update with. Come yell at me if you want! I'm stubble-sandwich on tumblr. I honestly love it. Actually, someone left a comment on chapter one of this fic within the past month and that alone is what sparked my finishing chapter two and finally getting it up, so there you go. Comments are magic. I love you all.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading this! Let me know what you think in the comments. (I LOVE comments!!) 
> 
> This was part of the Captain Swan Supernatural Summer. It was going to be a oneshot, but things got out of hand and now it's a two parter. This was actually really hard to write for some reason and I came within an inch of scrapping it altogether. I'm really glad I didn't. Credit for this idea goes to a random thought someone shared on tumblr about how people who eat tons of cheap food are actually werewolves (long story short). The name for this fic was taken from that old poem about two wolves (light and darkness, good and evil) living inside us all, and the one that wins is the one you feed. 
> 
> Also my fellow Michigangster Kaitlyn (spartanguard on tumblr) made a really sweet graphic for this piece. Check it out if you can! And thanks for reading!


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